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“We’re up against something quite different here, Thursday. Pray to the GSD you never have to use them, but if you do, don’t hesitate. Our man doesn’t give second chances.”
I took the clip out of my automatic and reloaded it and the spare I carried with me, leaving a standard slug on top in case of an SO-1 spot check. Over in the flat, Styx had dialed another number in Ruislip.
“Hello?” replied the unfortunate car owner on the other end of the line.
“Yes, I saw your advert for a Ford Granada in today’s Trader,” continued Styx. “Is it still for sale?”
Styx got the address out of the car owner, promised to be around in ten minutes, put the phone down and then rubbed his hands with glee, laughing childishly. He put a line through the advert and then went onto the next.
“Doesn’t even have a license,” said Tamworth from the other side of the room. “He spends the rest of his time stealing ballpoints, causing electrical goods to fail after the guarantee has expired and scratching records in record shops.”
“A bit childish, isn’t it?”
“I’d say,” replied Tamworth. “He’s possessed of a certain amount of wickedness, but nothing like his brother.”
“So what’s the connection between Styx and the Chuzzlewit manuscript?”
“We suspect that he may have it. According to SO-14’s surveillance records he brought in a package the evening of the break-in at Gad’s Hill. I’m the first to admit that this is a long shot but it’s the best evidence of his whereabouts these past three years. It’s about time he broke cover.”
“Has he demanded a ransom for the manuscript?” I asked.
“No, but it’s early days. It might not be as simple as we think. Our man has an estimated IQ of one eighty, so simple extortion might be too easy for him.”
Snood came in and sat down slightly shakily at the binoculars, put on the headphones and plugged in the jack. Tamworth picked up his keys and handed me a book.
“I have to meet up with my opposite number at SO-4. I’ll be about an hour. If anything happens, just page me. My number is on redial one. Have a read of this if you get bored.”
I looked at the small book he had given me. It was Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre bound in thick red leather.
“Who told you?” I asked sharply.
“Who told me what?” replied Tamworth, genuinely surprised.
“It’s just . . . I’ve read this book a lot. When I was younger. I know it very well.”
“And you like the ending?”
I thought for a moment. The rather flawed climax of the book was a cause of considerable bitterness within Brontë circles. It was generally agreed that if Jane had returned to Thornfield Hall and married Rochester, the book might have been a lot better than it was.
“No one likes the ending, Tamworth. But there’s more than enough in it regardless of that.”
“Then a reread will be especially instructive, won’t it?”
There was a knock at the door. Tamworth answered it and a man who was all shoulders and no neck entered.
“Just in time!” said Tamworth, looking at his watch. “Thursday Next, this is Buckett. He’s temporary until I get a replacement.”
He smiled and was gone.
Buckett and I shook hands. He smiled wanly as though this sort of job was not something he relished. He told me that he was pleased to meet me, then went to speak to Snood about the results of a horse race.
I tapped my fingertips on the copy of Jane Eyre that Tamworth had given me and placed it in my breast pocket. I rounded up the coffee cups and took them next door to the cracked enamel sink. Buckett appeared at the doorway.
“Tamworth said you were a Litera Tec.”
“Tamworth was correct.”
“I wanted to be a Litera Tec.”
